The man swept the floor, being especially sure not to leave
anything on the ground in the hallway. His hunched posture and
reserved personality suggested he was an older man, bordering on
60. He swept the floor day in, day out without complaint. The
other janitors always thought something was strange about the
man. "Look at him!" Remarked the first janitor. "It ain't
natural!" He said from behind the closed staff room, as he and
the other janitor observed the man working away at the floor in
the hallway. "Leave him alone," said the other janitor. "I heard
his wife killed herself in front of the poor bastard." This was
pure speculation. No one knew what had happened to the man, or
any facts about him, nor did they even know his name. The
janitors referred to him simply as "the man," as did most people.
The man bent over to replace the liner in the garbage can. The
bones in his back cracked loudly, and he groaned, nearly
inaudibly, but loud enough to be heard by the principal, Mr.
Penn, who happened to be standing outside of his office. "Why
don't you take the rest of the day off?" He half offered, half
demanded. Mr. Penn was a tall man with a forgettable face, his
eyes were light blue, and were almost non-existent, while his
hair was wispy and light gold. "W-what?" Said the man. "Take the
rest of the day off. The students have a half day today anyway.
Really. I insist."
"Well, I just taking care of this here-"
"No really, I insist."
"I suppose I could then, Mr. Penn."
"Good. I'll see you tomorrow at 8 A.M."
"Sounds good to me, sir."
The man picked up his belongings. His lunch was uneaten. It was
only 10:45. "Today will be the day," he thought, as he exited the
building and proceeded to the post office. The man walked slowly,
but in a very distinguished manner that almost suggested royalty.
The man wasn't royal though, far from it. He felt in his pocket.
There was the letter he had meant to send to his son. The man set
off to the post office. He knew it wasn't far away from his home,
so he could do it relatively quickly. The man thought of his son.
He wasn't going anywhere fast in his life, and was working a dead
end job at a local pizza parlor. The man had saved a great deal
of money for his son to be put through college, and now he
stagnated in a backwater town. But there was nothing he could do.
Nor did he intend to do anything. He thought of what he had said
to his son on the phone last Tuesday. "You're a man now! You are
in control of your life! Not me!" He almost regretted raising his
voice, but he figured it was time to get serious with his son.
The man passed by the giant oak tree in the center of the town,
and ventured into the post office. "Today is the day," he
thought, as he walked through the door. The post office was more
crowded than usual, which wasn't abnormal considering that it was
getting close to Christmas, and gifts were being sent every which
way. The slid into the line that had formed, zig-zagging around
the building. The man looked around the building, and saw many
different characters: a lady chatting away on her phone about
what was to be for dinner that night. A man with a sour look on
his face that reminded the man of a cat. There was a little boy
there with his mother. He kept on tugging at her skirt, and was
sternly reprimanded with every tug. The man chuckled a bit. Or,
at least, it seemed like a chuckle. It was more of a grunt that
escaped his chest with a high pitched intonation. The numbers
were being called. "33!" Called the woman behind the counter.
That was the man's number. He looked down at his slip that he
grabbed for confirmation. He stepped right up to the
counter.
"Hello, sir. How are you doing today?"
"Fine, and yourself?"
"Just wonderful. What can I do for you today?"
"I'd like to send this parcel to Cold Springs. How much will that
be?"
"Certainly. The total comes to $2.10"
The man fished out $2.10 in quarters. He could see the lady's
smile quickly evaporate as he counted the change. A collective
groan echoed through the post office. The man didn't seem to
notice as he took his time counting the change. He set down eight
quarters and one dime.
"Thank you sir, will that be all today?"
"Yes ma'am. Thank you."
"Ok, a merry Christmas to you."
"Uh-huh."
The man strode out of the post office. He set off back to his
house. He did some mental calculations. He figured he could get
home in about five minutes. Not that it mattered. The man's
thoughts jumped back to his old high school. He deeply regretted
dropping out.
"God knows I wouldn't be here" he said to his friend. He found
himself suddenly at his acquaintance's house. "I could be making
50 grand a year. But no. I toil away in a school filled with
little monsters and sarcastic teachers."
"Yeah, but then you wouldn't have met me," said his friend.
"Why would that matter?" He said, with a stinging
indifference.
The man blinked twice. He was walking along the road again. By
his estimation he was now 4 minutes away from his house. He
wondered why all the cars were going through the intersection
even though the light was clearly red.
"It doesn't make any sense. It really doesn't."
He was in a car with his wife.
"I know, I know."
"We do everything in the world for him, and this is how he repays
us?"
They were having a conversation about their son.
"He's just a boy. He clearly doesn't know any better."
"He's 15 years old. He damn well should know better."
The man knew what would happen next. He was powerless to prevent
it. His wife screamed. A sedan crossed the median and smashed
head-on into their tiny subcompact. The man lost consciousness.
He opened his eyes. A single tear streamed down his cheek. Three
minutes, by his estimation. The man intended to get good and
drunk that night. He had a few bottles of the harder alcohol left
from the last time. The last time he got disgustingly drunk. A
boy bounced his basketball and shot at the hoop. It rolled around
the rim once, twice, thrice, and the man's head followed its
progress. It fell out. The boy looked dejected, but picked the
ball right back up and shot it again. It went in. The man had
arrived at his house. He walked in the door, set his things down,
and muttered, "today is the day."
The man walked over to his refrigerator and took out a bottle of
vodka. He haphazardly opened it, and took a long draught, and
then started softly weeping. He went to flick on the light
switch, but nothing happened when he repeatedly hit the switch up
and down. The man sat down on his couch, his whimpers turned into
piercing, plaintive wails. He was taking periodic gulps from the
bottle, recoiling each time. After he was good and drunk, the man
stumbled up the stairs. He walked into his room, and knelt over
the safe that was beside his bed. After much difficulty, he
managed to unlock the safe. "34.…..19.……..22," he said out loud,
in between drawn out wails. He was shaking now, and reached into
the safe. His hand touched it. It was unmistakable. He grabbed
the revolver and pulled it out. He clutched it with both hands,
moaning terribly. He propped his back against his bed, and
breathed giant breaths. "Today will be the day," he predicted.
The man stumbled back down the stairs and went over to his
kitchen table. He took another swig out of the vodka bottle. It
was empty. He didn't notice, nor did he care. The man sat himself
down at the table. He was at his wife's funeral. Her sister was
describing "what a wonderful, caring, kind, considerate, nice,
lovely, beautiful--" and then she broke down in tears. The man
sat in the second row, his stone-faced demeanor not changing
once. The coffin was now being lowered. The man wailed, his
pent-up emotions leaking, and then finally gushing out. He was in
the car with his sister-in-law. He held her and cried all the way
back to his home. The man snapped his head back. He was at his
house, at his kitchen table. He pressed the muzzle of the gun
against his head. Without hesitation, the man fired one shot. He
slumped over in his chair, and onto the table.
Later that day, the mailman delivered a letter to the man's
house. It was the one he had sent to his son earlier, only now it
was stamped in red ink that read "return to sender." And all the
while as this was happening, the man sat in his kitchen, in a
pool of his own blood.